


The Welcome To Night Vale Community Radio Intern Survivor Support Group

by ActuallyGirl



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Interns & Internships, Life in Night Vale, Night Vale Community Radio, To the parents of (insert name of intern), Typical Night Vale Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-19
Updated: 2015-05-19
Packaged: 2018-03-31 07:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3969505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ActuallyGirl/pseuds/ActuallyGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The flyer reads:<br/>"To the Parents of [INSERT NAME OF INTERN HERE], has one of your LOVED ONES been KILLED, MISPLACED IN-BETWEEN DIMENSIONS or simply turned into something GROTESQUE and NO LONGER HUMAN in the line of Community Radio Duty? Join our support group! We meet Wednesdays at THAT PLACE, you know the one! No not the one out by the abandoned car lot, the OTHER one. Yes, that one. Coffee is served. No stories are shared outside of the meeting. 7 pm."<br/>And, in much angrier red letters printed underneath: <br/>"No one tell *HIM* about it!"  </p>
<p>Random dabble into Night Vale weirdness where we get to hear from the Mother of Intern Dylan. <br/>No angst (because everyone is weird in this town).</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Welcome To Night Vale Community Radio Intern Survivor Support Group

The woman has a sip of horribly bland an obviously poorly-chanted free coffee before she starts telling her story to the small crowd:

"As soon as Dylan left for work that first day we put up a sign in the window advertising that we had room for rent. Maybe some people will think less of us for doing that, but when Dylan came home that evening he told us he didn't mind. Such a sweet kid. He knew that money had been tight for me and his dad ever since that scientist put our store out of business. Fake, he called us! Can you believe it? We made the watches like we've always made them, combining the honored tradition of exact machinery, dentistry and taxidermy. So what if they don’t tell time correctly, who decided what speed time should move in anyway? Certainly not SCIENCE. We’re the watchmakers, we should be considered an authority in this field, one would think! Time is not science! Sorry, where was I? Oh yes.

Dylan didn’t mind vacating his room and starting to sleep on the couch, he was just so happy to be part of something. I remember having dinner that evening, his father had made pölsa from pteranodon meat we got for cheap from a neighbor that still had some left. Dylan was so excited about his first day he could hardly eat! He went on and on about the studio, all of the equipment and how he’d met Cecil Palmer personally.

Maybe it was unfair of us to start putting his things up on Cragislist while he was still there living with us, I’m sure many of you have done differently, but it was just a matter of time. An inexact matter, of course, since there is no way to accurately measure something as fickle as time, but a matter of it nonetheless.

Don't get me wrong, we were of course as proud as any parents of an aspiring local radio journalist would be! But to us, as soon as he got that blood-soaked letter of acceptance, our son was already dead.

So for a couple of nights our dead son would sleep on the couch.   
And for a couple of nights our dead son would have dinner with us and chat about what a great day he had with his inevitable killers.   
For a couple of nights we would tell our dead son how happy we were for his happiness.

Then suddenly, quietly, and over night, as these things often go, our little town had a subway network. From that day own we ate dinner alone and watched late-night shows on the couch, and spoke no more to our dead son. 

We rented out the room though, so that's a plus! To a very lovely young woman who is an exchange student of some sort. At Least we think that’s what she is, we don’t really understand her way of communication, but she pays on time every month and has a nice shrieking voice. So yeah, there's that.“

There are no applause in the room as the remnants of Dylans mothers words fades out, only the uneasy scraping of chairs and covered up coughs that made up the soundstage of shared experiences too personal to comment or salute. A somewhat noisy silence of understanding and companionship. 

“So” Maureen clears her throat as she looks at the people sitting on cheap plastic chairs in a poor excuse of a circle “Who else would like to share today?”

**Author's Note:**

> I put pölsa in there to make people image-google it, and because I couldn't think of any weirder food. So now in my head canon Dylan's dad is Swedish and named Jörgen. 
> 
> My intention was to write this for several interns but I haven't had the energy, so for now it's a finished story :)
> 
> Thanks for reading, it's my fist attempt to write anything related to WTNV.


End file.
